The Waiting
The Craik camp had grown restless as dusk settled into the gullies. The gulls screamed longer than usual, circling the cliffs as if they, too, expected blood. Agnes sat by the fire sharpening her short sword with slow, deliberate strokes. The rasp of stone on steel was steady as breath. Seumas paced the length of the sheds, cloak dragging, pistols checked and reloaded.
"They're out there," he muttered, voice raw from the cough that gnawed him. "I can smell them in the wind."
Agnes glanced up, hair lit red by the fire. "Then let them come. We're ready."
He paused to look at her, this woman who never wavered, who had stood against Margaret Sinclair's sneer as if born to defy the world. His chest ached—not just with sickness, but with the weight of what she meant to him.
A horn sounded faint on the ridge.
Seumas's hand fell to his claymore. "It begins."
Torches in the Night
From the dark above, points of fire bloomed—torches, dozens of them, bobbing like red stars. Shadows stretched long down the slope as men advanced, boots crunching on frozen turf. They moved in ranks, rough but disciplined, Keith's men at the front, Margaret's hirelings at the flanks.
Two barrels of pitch rolled ahead, black shapes pushed by grunting figures.
"Buckets!" Seumas barked, and a line of women and boys sprang to their stations, brine sloshing heavy.
The first torch flew, spinning end over end, and struck a kelp stack. Flames leapt greedily up the dry weed, but a bucket splashed, quenching the fire in a hiss and billow of smoke. A cheer rose from the Craiks.
A second torch arced toward the sheds. Agnes darted forward, skirts whipping, and stamped the embers with her boot, driving the shovel's flat head into the sparks until they smothered.
Then the muskets cracked. Smoke burst across the ridge. A Craik lad cried out, clutching his arm where a ball had grazed him.
Ewan, face pale but steady, raised his musket, sighted, and fired. His ball clipped the hat clean off a raider's head, sending it spinning into the mud. The Craiks roared approval.
The Clash
Seumas charged to the weak seam, claymore high, targe tight against his side. He struck the first man with the iron boss, teeth breaking under the blow. Another swung a pike; Seumas caught it, twisted, and drove his sword through the man's thigh. Blood sprayed hot, painting the frozen earth.
The fight thickened. Keith's men pushed in hard, targes locked, bayonets stabbing. Margaret's hirelings slashed from the sides, cruel and quick.
Donald MacRae came straight for Seumas, scarred throat bared, bayonet flashing. "Culloden should've taken you!" he snarled.
Seumas's claymore met steel, sparks flying. He shoved with his targe, the iron boss crunching against MacRae's jaw. Blood poured down the man's chin, but he fought on, bayonet scraping Seumas's shoulder.
"Culloden did," Seumas growled, twisting, blade biting deep into MacRae's thigh. "I just crawled back."
MacRae fell, cursing, but was dragged away by his fellows.
Agnes at the Sheds
At the sheds, Agnes fought like a storm. Her short sword flickered in the firelight, parrying a thrust, slashing a cheek, leaving blood dripping red-black. The shovel in her left hand smashed a raider's knee sideways with a sickening crack. He went down screaming.
Another man lunged for her hair. She twisted, slammed the shovel's iron edge into his temple, and he collapsed like a dropped sack.
"Hold the line!" she shouted, voice ringing like a bell. "For Craik! For fire!"
The people answered with a roar, their fear burning away in the heat of her fury.
Fire and Smoke
One barrel of pitch tumbled too close. A torch struck it, and fire roared skyward. The sheds lit like day, shadows jumping wild. Smoke boiled black, choking the air.
Seumas stumbled, coughing until blood flecked his lips. His lungs burned, but he pushed forward, claymore swinging, cutting a path through the haze.
From the ridge, Kerr the marksman knelt, musket steady, sight trained on Seumas's chest. His finger tightened on the trigger.
The shot never came.
Agnes had seen the glint. She raised her pistol, aimed true, and fired. The ball struck Kerr in the shoulder, spinning him sideways, his shot blasting harmlessly into the night sky.
Seumas turned, eyes finding hers through the smoke. Their gaze locked—his ragged but blazing, hers fierce and unyielding. In that heartbeat, nothing else existed.
Then a raider charged. Seumas spun, claymore cleaving him from shoulder to gut.
The Turning
The Craiks fought like wolves. Buckets quenched flame as fast as it leapt. Muskets cracked in ragged volleys drilled by Seumas himself. Targes slammed, dirks flashed, men and women held the line with grit and fury.
At last Keith gave the signal. His horn sounded sharp and clear. His men broke off, dragging their wounded, leaving two dead on the ground.
The night fell quiet save for the crackle of smouldering kelp and the groans of the hurt.
The Craiks had held.
Aftermath
Seumas leaned heavy on his claymore, coughing blood into his palm. Agnes was at his side in an instant, steadying him, her own arms streaked with soot and blood.
"You're bleeding," she said fiercely.
"So are you."
They looked at each other, and despite the smoke, the wounds, the death, both smiled faintly.
"They'll come again," Agnes said.
"Aye," Seumas rasped. He wiped the blood from his lips. "But so will we."
The people gathered around them, cheering weakly, some weeping, all alive. They had faced fire and steel and endured.
But on the ridge above, Margaret Sinclair sat her horse, face pale with fury. She had seen Agnes Craik standing at his side, fighting like a queen of flame, had seen their eyes meet in the midst of battle.
And in that moment, Margaret swore she would see the woman dead if it cost her every coin in Aberdeen.
The Aftermath of Fire
The Craiks buried their dead by dawn. Only two had fallen, but in a small clan even two felt like a wound through the whole body. They were laid with targes across their chests, claymores resting at their sides, the earth salted before it closed over them. Old Màiri scattered kelp ash into the grave, murmuring, "Gun dùin an talamh sibh mar chnoc, agus gun cum an cuan sibh mar mhàthair." (May the earth close over you like a hill, and may the sea hold you like a mother.)
The living gathered at the fire. Their clothes were singed, their hands blistered, their eyes red from smoke. But they were alive. The kelp fires still smouldered, the saltpans still steamed. The Craiks had held.
Seumas sat apart at first, chest burning with every cough. His hand trembled as he cleaned his pistols, wiping soot from the steel, ramming powder and ball with steady care. He had lived through Culloden, had crawled back from wounds that should have killed him, had built fortunes in Glasgow—yet he knew he had never belonged anywhere as much as he did here, among these people, by Agnes's side.
She found him there, kneeling in the mud by the sheds. Her red hair was tangled, her face streaked with soot, but her eyes burned with a light brighter than any torch.
"You'll break yourself," she said, kneeling beside him. "You can barely stand."
He gave a crooked smile. "I've been breaking a long time. I just never had reason to mind it."
Her hand covered his. "Now you do."
He looked into her eyes and felt the weight of every prophecy, every battle, every loss. "Agnes," he said hoarsely, "if I fall, it won't be from musket or claymore. It'll be from my own cursed lungs. I cannot leave you wondering."
"You won't fall," she said fiercely. "And if you do—I'll stand in your place."
The Firelit Gathering
That night, when the worst wounds had been bound and the kelp fires were burning steady again, the Craiks gathered. Not to mourn, not to plan, but to bind themselves tighter than fear could loosen.
Màiri stood again, her shawl whipping in the sea-wind. "We have fought," she said, her voice cracking but strong. "We have bled. And we will fight again. But tonight we must also bind joy to sorrow, or else sorrow will eat us whole."
Seamus dozed by the fire. Bind Joy to sorrow. He smiled and remembered in detail the Handfasting a few days ago. He wished for kin to have seen but was sure they saw from Heaven.
The Handfasting replayed
Màiri produced a strip of red wool, dyed in kelp ash and madder root. She held it up, letting the firelight shine through the weave.
"This ribbon binds more than hands," she said. "It binds fire to fire, blood to blood, soul to soul. Do you enter freely?"
"I do," Agnes said without hesitation.
Seumas's voice was hoarse, but steady. "I do."
They joined hands, his scarred and calloused, hers strong from work and battle. Màiri wound the ribbon around their wrists, knotting it firm.
"Repeat after me," she said.
Seumas spoke first, in Gaelic:
"Le fuil is stàilinn, le cridhe is anam, tha mi leat gu bràth."
(With blood and steel, with heart and soul, I am yours forever.)
Agnes's eyes shone as she answered:
"Le teine is luaithre, le gaol is treibhdhireas, tha mi leat gu deireadh nan làithean."
(With flame and ash, with love and loyalty, I am yours until the end of days.)
The people cheered, stamping feet, clapping hands, voices raised in the old cry: "Slàinte! Slàinte!" Health! Health!
Seumas bent his head, kissed her brow, and whispered so only she heard: "You've given me what no war, no coin, no crown ever could."
"And you've given me what no man ever dared," she whispered back. "Your truth."
Later, when the fire had burned low and the people drifted to their beds, Seumas and Agnes slipped away to the cliff path above the burn. The sea crashed below, white spray rising like ghosts against the black rock.
They stood close, ribbon still binding their wrists. Seumas touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "I thought I had only years of pain left. Now I find I may have years of love."
"Then take them," she said fiercely. "Every one."
Their lips met, not hurried, not desperate, but steady, as if sealing every vow spoken before the people. The salt air mingled with the taste of smoke and blood, but beneath it was the sweetness of something new—something they had both thought long lost.
They rested forehead to forehead, breath mingling, hearts hammering. For the first time in decades, Seumas felt alive not because he fought death, but because he chose life.
The fire burned down and Seamus slept in the memory. The Craiks slept with hope that night. But on the ridge above, unseen in the darkness, a rider watched and turned away, carrying word back to Wick.
Margaret Sinclair would know.
And she would not forgive.
Gathering Storms
The morning after dawned with a sky like hammered pewter. The wind had turned sharp, driving gulls inland, and the sea smashed against the cliffs as though warning of what was to come.
The Craiks went about their work, kelp raked, fires fed, pans tended, but an unease ran through the camp. They had beaten back fire and steel once—but all knew it would not be the last time. The Sinclairs would not stop, and Keith would not rest while Gunn still drew breath.
Seumas stood on the rise, looking out to sea. His cough had returned, racking him until he doubled over, blood staining the handkerchief he pressed to his lips. Agnes was beside him at once, steadying him, her hand warm on his back.
"You're pushing too hard," she whispered.
"I've no choice," he rasped. "They'll come again, and harder. I must be ready."
She gripped his arm. "You're not alone anymore, Seumas. They'll have to break us all, not just you."
He managed a thin smile. "Then they'll bleed the more for it."
Plans in Wick
At the King's Arms in Wick, Margaret Sinclair paced like a caged hawk. Her father sat calmly at the table, sipping wine, ledger open. Keith leaned against the wall, arms folded, face unreadable.
"They bind themselves," Margaret hissed. "He gave her his name—his cursed name! And she wore it like a crown."
Robert's voice was calm. "Then we unmake it. Coin and writs will choke their trade. Keith's men will bleed them at the seams. When the hunger and the fear gnaw deep enough, they'll turn on Gunn themselves."
Margaret's hands clenched into fists. "Not enough. I want her dead by my hand. I'll not be made a fool again."
Keith's eyes narrowed. "Careful, my lady. A personal vendetta blinds quicker than smoke. Gunn is dangerous, but the woman—aye, she's clever. She holds those folk together. Kill her, and the pans collapse. But miss her—and you'll raise her into a martyr. Are you ready for that?"
Margaret's lips curled. "Then I will not miss."
Keith glanced at Robert. "Your coin may buy men, Sinclair, but your daughter's temper may spend them poorly."
Robert shut the ledger. "We strike once more. No scattered raids. One blow, large and final. Keith, gather your men. Margaret—stay your hand until the hour comes. I'll not risk all for your pride."
Margaret said nothing, but her eyes glittered like knives.
The Craiks' Resolve
That night, the Craiks gathered again by the long fire. Smoke curled into the starless sky, carrying their prayers with it.
Old Màiri raised her hands. "The tide rises. Blood has been spilled, and more will come. But hear me—our enemies think us weak. They do not know the strength of fire, of kin, of love. We will not break."
Ewan stood, his musket clutched awkwardly but firmly. "I'll fight," he said, voice cracking. "I'll stand by Seumas, by Agnes, by Craik."
Others followed—men, women, even children too young for steel but old enough for courage. One by one they pledged, their voices carrying into the night: "Còmhla. Còmhla." Together.
Seumas rose last. His chest burned, his breath ragged, but his voice carried clear. "The Sinclairs want us broken. The Keiths want us gone. But we are not names on a ledger. We are not coin to be counted. We are salt, sea, smoke, and blood. And blood will answer blood."
The cry went up: "Fuil airson fuil!" Blood for blood!
The Vision
Later, when the camp slept, Seumas walked the cliff path alone. The moon broke through cloud, silver on the sea. He leaned on his claymore, coughing, breath misting in the cold.
He thought of his father, of Culloden, of the prophecy spoken at his birth: Fuil is stàilinn. Blood and steel. He had carried both all his life, and now he wondered if the stream of blood would ever end—or if it would drown him, and those he loved.
A hand touched his arm. Agnes. She had followed him, barefoot on the frost-hard path.
"You're not alone in this," she whispered.
He looked into her eyes, saw fire there, saw love. And for the first time in years, hope.
"No," he murmured. "Not alone."
Together they looked out over the sea, where the waves crashed red in the moonlight, like streams of blood spilling endlessly against the cliffs.
The stage was set. The Sinclairs schemed, Keith sharpened his blade, the Craiks braced themselves. And in the heart of it, Seumas Gunn and Agnes Craik stood bound by vow, knowing that before the tide turned, more blood would fall—streams of it, running into the sea.